


Lines

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Castiel, Big Brother Dean, Cutting, M/M, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Recovery, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Survivorship, Tattoo Artist Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: Sam is haunted by memories of love lost, and he is constantly reminded of the days he practiced self-harm. The scars don't let him forget, and he doesn't truly want to forget. He simply wishes he could remember on his own terms. Enter Castiel, a tattoo artist who makes it his mission to help Sam recognize himself as a warrior winning the battle against his own demons.





	1. Brothers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosworms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosworms/gifts).



The note Dean left behind was written in familiar, crisp, capital letters. 

“Sammy,   
You don't have to. But in case you decide to. Happy birthday, kiddo.   
~Dean”

It was attached by rubber band to an envelope. Sam didn't have to look to know what was inside. 

They had talked most of the night, the way they always did the last night of Dean's visits. Sam promised himself every time that they wouldn't do that, because he worried about Dean getting back on the road without sleep. But every time, dawn crept up on them before either was ready to say goodnight. A few nights a year, Sam and Dean joked and argued for hours, about everything. Each bared his soul, to allow the other to help bear it. 

It was during one of these nights that Dean had admitted that he suspected he was dyslexic. He had never told anyone before, because he was terrified of what teachers and their father would try to do to fix it, and even more afraid it wouldn't work. Girls liked guys who didn't care. They didn't like guys who legitimately tried and failed anyway. He had told Sam he especially hated to read when his little brother was in the room, breezing through his homework. Any attempts he made were at night with a flashlight, and by his sophomore year, he had given up even on that. 

It was during one of these nights that Sam confessed he had continued to hurt himself past high school. Dean knew about the carving Sam had done into his own thighs, because he had caught him once. Sam had emerged from a shower to find Dean rummaging through his room, and had been outraged. But when Dean turned to him with dark eyes and held up Sam's shoebox, he knew it was over. Shame had poured out in tears, but relief filled the space. Dean knew. He had never wanted Dean to know, not ever. But now that he did, Dean would help him figure out how to stop. 

And he had. Most of those lines had healed completely, and Sam had learned other ways to vent his compulsive frustrations. With Dean's help, he had not needed a blade in years.

“Then...then Jess.”

Dean closed his eyes in a flinch. “God, Sammy. I'm so sorry.”

He nodded, and sniffed. “I can't even hear his voice anymore, you know? Sometimes I can. But usually, he's just a ghost. I can't remember the good times, because I spent so many long months shoving down every memory of him because it hurt so bad. I loved him. But months went by, and he wasn't there to love, and finally I couldn't love him as much as I hated me.”

The older man was grinding his teeth. “What did you do to my brother?” he growled. 

Sam snorted softly. “What I thought he deserved at the time. The only thing I could do to make him feel anything at all. And-and one day that didn't work anymore.”

“Sammy?”

“Brady came home from a conference and found me. I had passed out on my bed, and I was bleeding everywhere.”

“When the hell was this?” Dean roared. 

Sam wouldn't meet his eyes. “If you want me to tell you, you can't snarl at me.”

With visible effort and a deep breath, Dean quieted and gestured for Sam to continue. 

“I wasn't going to die, obviously. But-but it was bad. Worse than it had ever been. I got some help at the school clinic, and I'm still seeing someone every week.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me this?” Dean demanded. 

Sam smiled sadly. “Dude, you were the last person in the world I wanted knowing about this.”

So last night, it came up again, and Dean asked in an admirably gentle voice if Sam still had control. 

The younger man had nodded. “I'm good. Really good. There are days when I think about it, days when I'm real low. But I'm on some meds that work for me, and I still see a therapist. I'm good.”

Dean's shoulders dropped two inches with his relief. “Will you tell me if you're ever in a bad place? I don't care how far I am or what else I got going on. I want to be here with you if you feel like it's getting bad again.”

He smiled. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I really am okay. The one thing that…”

Green eyes narrowed. “What? What do you need?”

Sam might have laughed at his brother's eagerness, but he knew it still weighed on the man that he had not been around the day Sam had nearly died because he couldn't stop cutting into himself. It wasn't Dean's fault. But no one had ever been able to tell Dean he wasn't responsible for something. 

“Sammy?”

“My scars,” he said finally. “I hate that I see them every day. Stupid, right? I guess they shouldn't bother me. But-but they do. I mean, they're part of me, part of my past, part of who I was. I just…” He took a deep breath. “I wish I could rewrite them so they told a different story. Does that make any sense?”

Dean reached across the coffee table to take Sam's hand. “Makes lots of sense. Show me. Can you...show me?”

So he revealed some of his lines, and, to his credit, his big brother managed to look without comment. He showed him the thin, delicate, long lines that he constantly hid beneath long sleeves, then the short, deep welts at his hip. “My thighs are worst,” he sighed. Shame snaked around his stomach, and he swallowed before continuing. “It's not that big a deal. Lots of folks have scars. But mine...They're a constant reminder of what I've tried so hard to overcome. You know? And-and part of me doesn't want to forget. It's important that I don't forget. But I guess I'd like to be the one to choose when I remember. I'd like to maybe choose how the memory hits me.” He pulled his sleeves down again. “I don't know.”

Dean was watching him. “You thought about tattoos?” he asked suddenly. 

Sam looked up from staring at his own hands. “What?”

His brother cleared his throat. “Look, Sammy, I don't have an opinion. Okay? I can't have an opinion about this. I'm not there, and I don't have any way to know what it feels like. But if you really do want to rewrite your story...what about writing over it somehow?”

The idea spun in Sam's head, and he began to smile. “You ever get one?”

“One?” Dean scoffed. He pulled his tee collar aside to show a strange, dark symbol on his left breast. “This one? Protection from inner demons.” He pulled the bottom of the shirt up to reveal a small but distinctly familiar image on his left side. “And this one…”

Sam laughed in delight. “Your Baby!”

“Damn right my Baby. Guy who did my protection sigil was terrified he'd screw her up, because he knew she was the love of my life. So I went to a new guy, and he took one look at the car, and said let's do it. He's good. And he's near here. I got my Baby done on my way out of town last time. Professional, nice guy, and total genius with ink.”

He sat back slowly. “I don't know, man. It sounds pretty expensive. I know you're convinced the life of a paralegal is glamorous, but it pays surprisingly little.”

Dean burst into laughter. “Really?” he said sarcastically. “And here I only came to visit to exploit your riches.”

“Sorry, dude. Utility company already did that.”

He snorted. “Well, anyway, it's something to think about for, you know, one day.”

And now Sam had stumbled out of his room after just three hours of sleep, and he had found Dean's meticulously cultivated handwriting wrapped around an envelope full of cash. Also in the envelope was a business card for a tattoo artist named Castiel.


	2. The Artist

Castiel was sketching when the young man opened the door. He was always sketching. As a child, his older sister had been exasperated by the way he constantly drew on his own hands, arms, and even his feet if he had no paper nearby. It was little wonder that he had ink over a great deal of his body now. 

“Cas,” Kate called. “Got a guy.”

“That's cool,” he muttered. “Where’d you meet this one?”

“At the door. Three seconds ago.”

It took a moment for that to sink it, but when it did, he stood at attention. “Oh. Fuck. Sorry. I thought-” He cut himself off when she rolled her eyes and went back to fiddling with her camera. “Whatever. Hey, man. What are you looking for?” He turned toward the massive figure at the door and his breath caught in his throat. 

“Are you Castiel?” the man asked. 

“God, I hope so,” he muttered. 

“Cas, stop falling in love with the customers!” Madison shouted from the back room. “Creeps them out!”

Castiel snickered. “Yeah, because there's nothing else creepy about this place.”

“Fuck you, Cas!” she responded. 

“Maybe I have the wrong place,” the young man said warily. 

Garth hurried from the back. “What’d I miss? Hey! Welcome to The Wolf Den, my friend! C-Dawg, you helping this guy?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at him. 

His boss took a step back. “You know what? You probably got this.” He grabbed his keys from the table. “I'm going out to get some lunch. Anybody want some? C-Dawg, you're locking up tonight? Okay, I'll be back in a little.”

He looked at Kate with frustration. “I'm off at four!” he argued belatedly. 

She shrugged. “Dude, you been Garthed.”

“One day I'm going to rip Mr. Fizzles from his damn arm, tell him he's been Cassed.”

Kate snorted. 

“Whatever.” He looked back at the man inching toward the door. “Yeah, I'm Castiel. You looking for ink, charcoal or canvas, or did my landlady send you, because I gotta say, she's getting what I got already.”

The man's lips curled into a smile. 

“There we go. Kid’s got a sense of humor. I like it. So? Who sent you, and how can I help you?”

He laughed. “I'm Sam Winchester. You did a tattoo for my brother, maybe three months back-”

“Winchester? What was it?”

“A car, a-”

“A black classic 1967 Chevy Impala,” he said, punctuating his words with a finger snap. “Gorgeous car.”

Sam nodded in surprise. “How do you remember that?”

He shrugged. “And that was his second session. Had to do it in two parts, couple months apart, because he traveled so much.”

“I'd travel too if I had a car like that,” Kate sighed. 

“So he's happy with his Baby, is he?” Castiel said with delighted smugness. He remembered the guy. “Dean, looked like a soldier, sauntered like a cowboy, remember? Said his regular guy was scared to ink his Baby, because guy would kill him if it came out wrong. He never came back to kill me. So I just had to figure he was happy.”

Sam's smile was worth waking up for that morning. It would be even better waking up to it. “That's him. He said you were damn good, and a nice guy. So I wanted to talk to you about a project, maybe get an estimate?”

Something about the way the man stood with his shoulders rounded and his hands in his pockets led Castiel to believe perhaps he should take this one privately. “Sure. Madison, get out of the back room. I got an actual paying customer.”

“Not yet,” she growled as she shoved by with her magazine. “Wait till he finds out how much you charge.”

He gave her his fakest smile. “You're such a sweetheart. Try not to fuck anyone on your way out. This is a sanitary place.”

“Yeah. Same to you, slut.” 

Sam was staring at her. “She's...Is she a friend of yours?”

Castiel shrugged, and led the way to the back. “Best friend. Why? You want her number? I'm pretty sure it's still up on the men’s wall at the bar across the street.”

“Uh...Uh, no. I'm...Not my type. I'm-It doesn't matter.”

But Castiel had heard the hesitation and thought he might know what it had meant. He smiled to himself, and sat on the beat up couch and gestured for Sam to sit on the equally pitiful one across from it. He reached above his head without looking and grabbed his sketchbook and portfolio from the bookshelf and laid them on the small table between them. “Okay. Talk to me.”

“Oh, wow,” he murmured as he opened the portfolio. “You did all these?”

“All mine,” he confirmed. “Graduated from Yale with an art degree, headed to Green Hall for my Masters in Fine Arts, did the gallery bullshit for a while, and now I'm here. And I teach a course on Saturday mornings at the community college, because why not?”

Sam was staring at him. “I...I had no idea…”

“That tat artists are actually artists? We are. Some of us have more training than others, more formal education. Some of us trained on canvas, some on skin. But it's all art. I don't even usually tell folks my background. But you've got something a little special in mind, something important, so I want you to know you're in good hands.”

The man lowered his gaze. “Not so important,” he murmured self-consciously. “Probably not worth your time.”

Castiel's dark hair was longer on the right side, buzzed short on the left. His multiple ear piercings were blues and silvers, and his lip ring was black. The one in his nose was silver. He wore dark blue eyeliner and a five o’clock shadow from at least three five o’clocks ago. His black shirt was from Croatoan’s Soul-Slip tour, when their single Archangel had raised them from badass to immortal. His boots had chains instead of laces. 

He was used to people staring. 

But he found that he was the one staring at Sam. He couldn't help it. He guessed the young man didn't know how aesthetically intriguing his face was. That face might be the focus of Castiel's next demonstration at the Fine Arts Center. 

The genes running through this family were unreal. 

“Just tell me, and I'll let you know if I can do it,” he said. 

Sam chewed on his lip, which just made Castiel want to bite him too. Then, without a word, he began to roll up his sleeves. 

Castiel's eyes softened immediately. “Scar coverage. I'd be honored to help you with that.”

His words pulled Sam's gaze up to lock onto his, and there was shocked gratitude there. “It-it isn't just here.”

“That's all right.”

“And this isn't the worst of it.”

“I understand.”

The young man smiled with relief. “Do you?”

Castiel shrugged. “You brother had a protective sigil on his chest meant to keep his inner demons at bay. And his car is a part of him, part of his story. These are your demons, and they're part of your story. They aren't going away. But we can write over them so that they say what you want them to.”

Sam immediately burst into tears, but he smiled through them. “Thank you,” he breathed. 

He reached out and took one of Sam's hands in both of his own. “I'm glad you came to me.”

“So am I.”


	3. Clientele

Sam was a little intimidated by Castiel's portfolio. The man was unbelievably good. Suddenly, everything seemed like a possibility, and that was probably a good thing, yet he was completely overwhelmed. 

He sat back in the couch. “I don't know,” he sighed. “I really don't.”

The artist smiled at him kindly. “Well, don't sound so defeated. You'll think of something.”

Sam swallowed hard. “No,” he admitted. “I probably won't.”

The incredible blue eyes watched him.

“I don't have any artistic talent whatsoever. And I don't know what will draw people's attention to my scars instead of away from them. I mean...it's for me, you know? I'm not trying to make people look at them. God, I definitely don't want that. But I also don't want a constant reminder...Especially...I mean, as for other people, the arms are worst, and I want something that will kind of camouflage my scars on my arms. Same for my side, I guess. But-but the worst is actually…” 

When a warm hand touched his, he realized he was closing his eyes in a flinch. 

He opened them again and stared down at those long fingers that offered him comfort. A small smile crossed his lips, and he found that he could take a full breath. “The worst is my thighs. I never worried about anyone seeing it there, so I was as brutal as I wanted to be. And it's bad. You may not be able to help me at all with that. But it's actually the part that bothers me the most. Because I'm the only one who sees it, it's this awful testament to how I hid from everyone for so long. That's not who I am. At-at least, it isn't who I want to be.”

Castiel nodded. “Sam, I'm not a rookie. Okay? I promise I can do whatever you need. And I'm not going to scare off. We don't have to decide everything right now.”

Sam nodded. “But part of it is...I don't think I-I mean, I could wait all year, and I'd never be able to think of what I should do. Can you...can you just suggest something, and I'll trust your judgement?” He snorted sourly. “Clearly my judgement is a little suspect.”

The warm hand remained on his, and two fingers brushed his pulse point. Sam took in his breath and held it while Castiel explored. “Sam, do you drink coffee?”

He stared. “Is-is that bad for a tattoo?”

At last, the artist began to laugh. He patted Sam's hand, and sat back. “No, Sam. No, I'm asking if you'd like to go out and get some coffee. So we can talk more.”

A hot flush filled Sam's face. “Oh.” He huffed out a short laugh. “Yeah, I like coffee. Is that something you do with clients? Sit and talk out their project?”

But Castiel was smiling at him in an odd way that just intensified Sam's blush. “No,” he murmured, as though he were speaking to himself. “It isn't.”

Sam shrugged in confusion. 

“But it's something I'd like to do with you. You want me to help you choose something.”

He nodded. 

“It should be something that has meaning. You want your scars covered, I can do that right now. But if you want something meaningful, something that will tell the story you want told...I need to get to know you a little better. What do you think?”

All of the sudden, Sam realized that this wasn't just about helping a client. This man really did want to get to know him. This incredibly talented, intensely attractive man was actually interested in knowing him. Well, that was terrifying. “I guess that's…” What was that? “Yeah, okay. That's...breakfast.”

Castiel blinked at him. “What?”

Sam chewed on the inside of his cheeks, then plunged forward. “Let me buy you breakfast. After work or before work. Either way.”

A slow smile brightened Castiel's face. “I like the way you think.” He nodded. “Okay, Sam Winchester. Breakfast. I can do it tomorrow after work if you can.”

He cringed. “My boss has a court date on Friday. What about Saturday?”

Castiel gave him a nod. “I teach till noon. Want to have breakfast at one?”

Sam was oddly proud of how casual he sounded. “Sure. We can meet here, walk to the Silver Diner.”

“Yeah. Okay. I'll bring my sketchbook.” He seemed to shake himself a little. “Do we need to talk pricing?”

He lowered his eyes. “Uh, let's wait on that. My brother...Let's figure out the plan so you can give me the bottom line.”

Castiel shrugged. “Perfect.” He stood and offered Sam his hand. When Sam accepted it and stood too, Castiel wrapped his left hand over both their rights, and held him in warmth. “Sam Winchester. The guy with a story to tell. I'm looking forward to learning all about you.”

Sam was out of the shop altogether before he successfully took a full breath again.


	4. Risks

In their defense, many of Castiel's students had never taken an art class, and were simply using his course to fill a requirement for a degree or certification in something else entirely. That didn't bother him. He liked having the opportunity to teach people who would never expose themselves to art under other circumstances. For them, he worked to keep things both simple and dynamic.

Then there were the students who were sincerely interested in becoming better artists. Those were fun and challenging.

The ones who annoyed the hell out of him were the ones who came in believing they were something the art world had never seen before, that their techniques could not be improved upon, because perfection had already been reached.

He had thrown one of those out of his class that morning.

It was one of the crowd he liked to call Dr. Zazel’s “special children,” the ones the intro level professor had endowed with an overinflated sense of accomplishment. For an artist whose entire portfolio was made up of scenes of Lucifer’s rise, and disturbing, but not all that artistically interesting or impressive, sets of yellow eyes, Dr. Zazel was obnoxiously conceited. He considered himself the foremost expert on up-and-coming young artists. Then they ended up in Castiel's studio course far too over-confident, and utterly unable to handle critique.

Castiel had removed the chip on most of their shoulders, with a glare that could split a stone, on the first day. But a few persisted out of stupidity, and he had finally lost his temper with Ansem today. The student had very little raw talent, and no heart, and he relied entirely on spite for inspiration. To make things worse, he was convinced he knew more about everything than Castiel did, so he had failed to learn technique. When he had turned his arrogance on another student, of whom Castiel was rather fond, the professor had had enough.

“You can't kick me out! I pay tuition! I pay your salary, man!” the kid shouted.

Castiel took another step toward him, and narrowed his eyes. “You pay for the opportunity to learn, which I have provided, and which you have failed to take advantage of. If you've got the spine to walk back in next week, you sure as fuck better be ready to act like a fucking professional. Get out of my studio till you've learned what that means.”

When the door slammed behind him, most of the other students applauded, laughed or whistled. Two of Dr. Yellow-Eyes’ other special snowflakes kept their gazes steady on their projects, and did not make the mistake of looking up the rest of the morning.

Castiel took a deep breath and turned back to Andy, who was trying not to smile.

“You didn't have to do that. I know he's full of crap.”

He shook his head. “He's not simply full of crap. He's full of himself. And he doesn't have a damn clue what he's talking about. Andrew, you're good. This is good. And you're going to get better. Because you listen, and you put in the effort. Guys like Ansem resent anyone who knows more than they do, and when they get left behind because they're too arrogant to let someone teach them, they start to figure the world doesn't understand or deserve them. They piss me off, because they refuse to learn, then spit their own failures all over other artists. Ansem can't understand what you're doing right, because he refuses to let anyone tell him where he could improve himself.”

“What am I doing right?”

“Some rookie artists can't see subtlety. I can. And you are doing it right.”

Andy allowed himself to grin. “Thank you. So? Where can I improve myself?”

The artist smiled too, finally. “Your theme is becoming understated, and let me show you why…”

By the time he got to the tattoo parlor, he could almost remember why he enjoyed teaching again, and his blood pressure was back under control.

And that was a very good thing, because as soon as he saw the man standing against the brick wall, tapping on his phone, his heart began to race.

He removed his helmet, and leapt off his motorcycle with grace. Then he took the moment Sam's distraction allowed him, to simply watch him and memorize his face.

It was a brilliant face.

Finally, Sam looked up and caught sight of him. A sincere smile lit his eyes, and warmed Castiel's heart.

“Hello, Sam,” he said as he approached.

Sam sighed happily. “Hey, Castiel.”

He liked this man. There was something intriguing about him, something incredibly pure and right.

“So? Breakfast?” he asked.

“Yeah. The Diner, you said.”

“Or-or wherever. Wherever you want.”

Castiel smiled. “Diner sounds great.”

They walked the block in a comfortable silence. Sam glanced twice more at his phone before they were seated.

“Everything okay?” Castiel nodded toward the device as they slid into a diner booth.

Sam's long throat pinkened a little. “Oh. No, I'm sorry. It's fine. My boss went in this morning, so I went in for a few hours, and then told him I had to go, and he's irritable because he can't ever find anything when I'm not there...And I'm getting a bunch of birthday messages from friends.”

Castiel's grin broadened. “Is it today?”

“Uh, yeah. It's today.” Sam smiled down at the table, then looked up. “So how was your class?”

The artist rolled his eyes. “The usual mix of harmlessly clueless, cluelessly talented, and useless assholes.”

Sam surprised him by bursting into laughter. “Most of the world fits into one of those categories,” he pointed out.

“Yeah. Every now and then you find one who is teachably talented, and those are the best. They make it worth getting up on Saturday morning.”

“My dad once said that was the most important quality. That and being a hard worker. If you worked hard and learned to take direction from somebody who knows more than you, you could do anything. He called it coachable. I can still hear him in my head. Sammy, why can't you be coachable like your big brother? You work hard, but you're too damn obstinate!”

Castiel smirked. “And were you?”

“Definitely.”

He laughed. “At least you know it.”

“I'm pretty self-aware these days,” he said dryly. “Self-conscious is probably more accurate.”

“So it's your birthday. Congratulations.”

Sam licked at his lips, and cleared his throat. “Thank you. It's...a bit of a milestone.”

Castiel didn't have to ask why. It had clearly been a struggle for Sam to reach whatever age this day marked for him. “Well, be proud. You made it, kid.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. Then he shook his head. “Waitress,” he muttered.

The artist watched him as he seemed to put his large frame deliberately behind the menu. It was ridiculous, and a little bit adorable to see this huge man hiding from a waitress who was barely five two. He smiled at her. “Hey. Give us a minute, can you?”

She shrugged. “Sure. You want coffee?”

“Two coffees, two waters. We’ll order something else in a minute.” He laughed as she walked away. “It's safe. She's gone.”

Sam looked up. “Oh! I wasn't-I just-If you're not ready, they-But I wasn't trying to-”

He couldn't help smiling. “It's okay, Sam. Take your time and decide. We aren't in a hurry, are we? And I'm sure our waitress will give us whatever time we need.” In his mind, he was taking notes as an artist, brushing small, vague impressions onto a canvas inside his head. It would become a clearer image as he learned more about the canvas himself.

“It's fine.” Sam hid behind his menu again, and this time, it was Castiel he was preventing from seeing him.

God, the man was adorable.

At last, Sam carefully placed the menu down. Castiel had noticed that every movement he made was careful. He brushed the mental canvas with this too. “So I'm making myself crazy by looking at images online.”

Castiel cringed. “I don't trust the internet.”

The man blinked at him, then let a tiny smile emerge. “You what?”

He shrugged. “I don't. It's this wave of chaos in digital form. And I'm not entirely sure it's not malicious.”

The smile was becoming a smirk. “You're afraid of the internet. You.”

“I didn't say I was afraid. I said I didn't trust it. How do I know I'm getting what I'm asking for? How do I know it isn't just guiding me toward what it wants?”

Sam seemed delighted by this confession. “There are biases in search engines, if that's what you mean, but those have been purposely coded in by companies to accommodate their advertisers.”

“Yeah? And how do I know the internet itself doesn't consider me an adversary?”

Intriguing hazel blue eyes stared at him. “I said advertisers.”

“I heard you. And I'm saying adversaries.”

Sam began to laugh. “Cas, you went to Yale. And you kind of look like you could take the internet in a fight if it ever came for you.”

This pleased him, even if it was a joke. He sat back with satisfaction. “Good. When it becomes sentient, come to me, and I'll protect you.” He frowned to himself suddenly. “Unless it already is sentient. How would we know?”

His breakfast date leaned forward on his elbows with a smile. “There's this story about a robot who gains self-awareness, and he interacts with a human, and then it gets introduced to the internet, and it stays up all night and learns about humanity and its flaws, and it can't handle how evil we are, and it shuts itself down. Essentially commits suicide. It wrote a note to its human friend to explain itself.”

“See?” Castiel snapped his fingers. “Even robots can't trust the internet!”

“That wasn't the point! The point is that people are worse!”

Castiel snorted. “Speak for yourself, internet apologist.”

Sam was still laughing when the waitress arrived. He ordered easily, and returned to teasing Castiel about his irrationality.

The artist smiled to himself and warmed his hands on his coffee mug. There was a strange feeling of accomplishment at having distracted Sam from his anxiety.

“So would you mind telling me about your own tattoos?” Sam said, and Castiel was pleased to see that he was far more at ease.

“Some of them. Some are just for me.”

Sam nodded quickly.

He held out his arm, and put his knuckles to the table to show the underside. “My first.”

The man smiled. “That's incredible.”

“Thank you. My undergrad minor had to do with religious art and symbolism. I've always been fascinated with it. So this is an Egyptian Shen, and inside the coiled rope is my name. It means that Castiel is under the protection of a divine presence. Then I've paired it with an Egyptian version of a winged disc, which is a sun symbol, and thought to be one of the oldest religious symbols on earth. I've been drawing some variation of these things on my arm all my life, since I first learned them. My sister finally snapped at me that I may as well get a tattoo of it, so I did. And after I got my twelfth tat, one of my artists suggested I may as well learn to do it myself, since I do all the designs anyway. So I did.”

Sam was watching him with wonder in his gaze. "Do you do everything?”

“Everything I can,” he responded.

He shook his head. “I wish I could be that way. To be confident and adventurous like that.”

“What do you do?”

“Nothing,” Sam lamented. “I should have been something by now, but I destroyed my own momentum. It's too late to get it back now. I'm kind of stuck now. I mean, I'm not complaining. I've got a decent job. Got a great brother, a few good friends. But I wish I could take a chance like that.”

Castiel leaned in. This man fascinated him. He was clearly smart, well-educated, athletic, handsome. But something was holding him back. “If you could do or be anything, Sam, what?”

He began to pale visibly. “I, uh, I don't know. I mean...I don't know. I guess I've just always been…”

“Careful,” he finished for him.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Maybe there was a chance for me to take a risk, but I've set myself on this path because I'm afraid that if I make any wrong move...I don't know. I guess I'm afraid if I fail, I'll be back to-to feeling like I did before. And I can't let that happen. I owe it at least to my brother to stay...careful.”

The image in his mind was coming into sharper focus. It was still out of reach, but he was closing in. “You're careful. Nothing wrong with being careful. But you miss a lot that way. For example? If I hadn't risked asking you for coffee, I would have been okay. But I would have missed getting to know an interesting character.”

The eyes widened. “Me? You think I'm interesting? You've got a storybook written on your body, punctuated by piercings!”

Castiel burst into laughter. “I didn't say I'm not interesting. But I know me. I'm over it. You, though. You're a walking contradiction. And I love that.”

“I-I don't know what…”

“Look. Be honest with me. You're terrified of getting inked. And it isn't because you're afraid of pain. You're afraid of the permanency. You're scared you'll choose the wrong thing, and you'll regret it.”

“Isn't everyone afraid of that?” he wondered.

Castiel shook his head. “Sure. Maybe.”

Sam sighed. “Not you.”

“No. Not me. And you know why not? Because it's about the experience. Immortality at the expense of the fleeting moment is no choice for me. I'll take the fleeting moment any day. But I know some people aren't that way. But you're so far on the other end of the spectrum that you're going to miss every fleeting moment you get! What are you waiting for? There's no time when a choice is entirely risk-free. You can't let fear choose for you. You have to make active decisions.”

“I don't do that well.”

“I'm getting that. But you can. You can quit your job and find another-”

“What? No!”

He put his hands up. “You don't like your work! I don't even know what you do, because when I asked, you said you do nothing!”

Sam shrugged helplessly. “So? Lots of people don't like their jobs. My life is worth no more than anyone else's.”

“It's worth living. And there's a difference between being careful because you're protecting yourself and being afraid because you don't trust yourself. So here's when you take a risk. I'm offering to be your mentor.”

Awe was etched across Sam's handsome face, with a backdrop of exasperation. “My mentor for what?”

“For adventures. Risks. Chances. I'm going to help you take a step out of your comfort zone. And when something goes wrong, I'll help you with any fallout. Sam, it's your birthday. And you're getting inked. This is a new era in your life. You deserve to try new things, and make mistakes, and discover new talents. And I'll watch over you.”

At last, Sam began to grin. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Yeah. Let's start a new era.”


	5. Adventure of Various Sorts

“I'm probably going to kill us both.” 

Castiel was laughing in his ear. “Probably not. And if you do? I've made my peace. I'll be dying for art.”

“That's stupid. You're kind of psychotic.”

“A little. Now kick it like you mean it.”

Confessing to Castiel that he had never ridden a motorcycle was one of the most dangerous mistakes he had ever made. He wasn't even sure how they had ended up here, with Sam on the artist’s bike, with the artist himself wrapped around him from behind. Worst of all, he was terrified that he might love it.

It was everything he could do to not lean back into that beautiful voice and the body it belonged to. 

Instead, he kickstarted the bike like he had practiced, and a moment beyond that saw them flying across the empty parking lot, and Sam felt a euphoria break over him in a wave. He could hear Castiel laughing, and then he was laughing too, and a thousand thoughts went through his mind with clarity he had never experienced. The thoughts were at odds with one another.

This was dangerous, unnecessarily risky. This was wonderful. This wasn't as hard as he had thought it would be. This was terrifying. Why hadn't he done this before? Why had he been so afraid of being afraid?

He had always played everything safe. It seemed to contradict his past self-harm, but in actuality, the two were related. His high anxiety and fear just fed his obsessive compulsive behavior, as well as his self-loathing and depressive state. The more depressed he became, the fewer risks he trusted himself to take. The fewer risks he took, the more he became stuck in a depressive cycle, until he couldn't feel anything, and needed pain to awaken something dormant, to prove to himself he was still alive, even if he didn't always want to be. It wasn't hard to see where that spiral took him.

But this. This was something new and exciting. He grinned to himself. This was an adventure. Maybe they were only in an empty junior high parking lot. Maybe he wasn't at top speed-or even busy street speed. But he was trying something exciting, and he was loving it. 

Castiel was purring into his ear, which Sam thought might be the most dangerous part of all this. “You've got this, Sam. Trust yourself that you've got this.”

They spent twenty minutes like this, though it felt more like twenty seconds to Sam, and at last, Castiel guided him to a stop. Sam was sweating under the afternoon sun, but his back went cold the moment Castiel's feverish warmth was taken away.

The artist was laughing. He reached down to help Sam up, which Sam thought was silly until he realized his knees had turned completely useless.

He let the man steady him, and stared down into his face in awe.

“You're a natural,” Castiel said quietly, in a strange, strained tone. “You're...you're more capable than you think.” 

The praise trickled over him to feed his pleasure. He felt drunk. “Thank you, Cas. I still don't know why you think I deserve extra attention, but I appreciate it.”

“You're something very special, Sam.” The voice was hoarse now. “You're...very special.”

Sam kept getting the feeling Castiel was about to say something else, then stopping himself. “No,” he responded, lowering his eyes at last. “No, you're the one helping out a complete stranger for no reason at all.” 

“A reason is beginning to present itself,” Castiel murmured.

A thought occurred to him suddenly. “The bike! Can we-could we somehow incorporate that into the tattoos?”

Castiel's blue eyes smiled in approval. “Sam, let's do this. Each new adventure you have, we will add to our portfolio, and we will use it somehow in your story. What do you think?” 

The idea pleased him immensely. “Yes. That's it. That's what I want. To rewrite my scars, because having survived them is what enabled me to have experiences I couldn't have imagined at my lowest points.”

The man looked proud of him. “And you think you don't get art. Sam Winchester, you are the art and the artist. And...and you're beautiful.”

A tangle of fear snaked around his throat. But it was laced with madness borne of adrenaline and the high of his victory on the motorcycle. He took a breath as well as he could, and took a step toward Castiel. His heart was pounding mercilessly.

But in the end, it was Castiel who closed the last inches between them.

Sam's whole body gushed with heat and pleasure. Castiel's sure fingers were at his jaw. His mouth was on Sam's. He could taste the coffee, and feel the hard, somehow sensual, contrast of the metal ring in Castiel's soft lip. Something about the feel of that ring on his tongue made Sam ravenous. He forced himself to pull away, even as a giddy voice in his head announced that he could kiss the man all day and never tire of this adventure.

The sexiest thing Sam had ever experienced in his life was the way Castiel stood on his toes to keep Sam's mouth just an instant longer.

Sam's tongue reached out to pull his lower lip into his own bite, and his eyes, which had remained open during their contact, slipped closed now as he savored the feel of his first kiss in years.

“Sam?” his favorite voice murmured. “Are you all right?”

“No,” he breathed back. “I'm never going to be all right again.” He didn't want to, but he opened his eyes anyway. The first flit of anxiety stabbed at him as he realized he couldn't read the expression on Castiel's face. “I-I'm sorry. Yes, no, I'm fine. Good! I'm good. Are you? All right?”

Then the grin returned to his new friend's face, and even if there was still a little bewilderment there too, it eased Sam's mind with its warmth. “Oh yeah. I'm amazing.” 

“Yeah,” Sam blurted out. “You definitely are.”

Castiel’s smile took on a tint of mischief. “Hell, yes, I am. I want to continue your lessons.”

Sam sighed happily. “I've got all day,” he breathed.


	6. Inside the Dream

Sam grinned at the ringing phone. He couldn't help the titter in his voice as he answered it. “Hello, best brother ever.”

Dean hesitated before responding. “Was that sarcastic?”

He laughed and threw himself onto the bed. “Nope. You're the best brother ever.”

“Are you drunk?”

The ceiling spun lazily around the room. “A little,” he sighed contentedly. 

“You always were a happy drunk. So? While you're messed up enough to compliment me, keep going. Why am I the best brother ever?” 

He might have giggled, though he wasn't sure. “You know you're technically both my best brother and my worst? Just going by the numbers.”

“Shut up. I'm your only brother. So what happened? You're usually kind of down on your birthday. I was calling because I thought I needed to give you some company.”

“See! Best big brother!” 

“Sam? I'm always here for your bad days. So I've got a right to celebrate your good ones with you. Spill it. What happened?” 

Sam smiled. Best big brother. “Tease me about this, and you die.” 

“Sammy!”

He laughed. “Okay. So I went to that tattoo artist you told me about.” 

 

*** 

 

“You mean the huge, gorgeous moose who came in a few days back? Sure I remember him. I was considering tearing off my panties right in front of him till you took him into the back room.”

Castiel snorted. “You could have poured a pile of panties out on the table in front of him, and I still don't think he'd have done much more than cringe. He's definitely gay.”

“Maybe he's like you. A slut for both teams and anyone on the bleachers.”

“No. Definitely gay. And amazing.” 

Madison’s eyes widened. “Did you really sleep with the moose guy?”

Castiel shook his head at him. “Moose! What the hell-” 

“He's freaking enormous, Cas. Moose.” 

“Whatever. No. I didn't sleep with him. But…” 

She was watching him with wolf eyes. “But?” she coaxed.

 

***

 

“I kissed him. Or-or he kissed me. I don't know. I don't remember how it happened.” 

Dean made a sound of surprise. “You-you kissed him! Whoa, slow down. You're on his motorcycle one minute and then-I must have missed an episode here.” 

“No. That's how it went!”

“I sent you to a gay tat artist?” Dean demanded. 

“I think he might be bisexual.”

“I sent you to a bisexual gay tat artist?” 

Sam shook his head. “What?”

 

***

 

“But you didn't sleep with him. I don't get it.”

Castiel threw his hands up. “This isn't an episode of Seinfeld, Mads! I don't sleep with everyone I meet!”

She took a deep breath. “Yeah. You literally do. You refer to it as your mission here on earth.”

“I do not.” 

“You do when you're stoned.” 

“I don't smoke anymore! That was ages ago!”

She shrugged. “Okay. Except I've never known you to hold back with a guy before. With...with anyone.”

Castiel was up and pacing, pulling at his longer hair absently. “No, I know. I'm not-I'm not holding back. I'm just...I’m not in a hurry.”

“This from the guy who says the Apocalypse has probably already come and gone, and nobody noticed, and so, since everyone still on earth is clearly without God and the angels, we may as well live as hard and fast as we can before Hell swallows us up.”

“I might have said that. That sounds like me.”

“So do you just not like him?”

 

***

 

“You falling for this guy, Sammy? How long’s it been since you dated?”

“Jess,” he responded without thought.

Dean went silent.

The ceiling was starting to tip angrily now. “Yeah, I know. I know, it's been-” 

“Years. Sam, it's been years.” 

He huffed a short laugh. “Yeah. I know.” Anxiety was beginning to bloom again in his stomach, and he sat up to help it settle. “But I think I'm finally ready. And-and I like this guy, man. I think...I think he might like me.”

 

***

 

Castiel's nerves were getting worked up in a way in which he wasn't at all familiar. He didn't like it. To avoid Madison’s curious gaze, he started randomly looking through the kitchen. He wasn't hungry. “I don't know. Mads, I don't think I ever...Don't laugh at me.”

“I wasn't!”

“I don't think I ever actually...liked anybody before.”

Madison’s eyebrow was quirked sharply when he ventured a peek. “Okay first? You like me. Second-”

“Not like that! I like you, but not like...like that!” 

“We've had sex more times than I could count. You hosted an orgy for my Christmas present last year.” 

He threw his hands up. “Sure, an orgy! That's more spiritual than religious. And this guy feels…” He closed his eyes and smiled to himself, remembering the way he had ached the moment their lips had been separated. He sighed. “This guy feels like church.” 

“That's ridiculous.”

 

***

 

“That's great. I just hope you're going in with your eyes open, dude. I mean, I got no right to judge, but the guy doesn't exactly look like the long-term kind of goal. So I hope you're just looking for something fun.”

He frowned down at his hands. “No, of course. That's all I was thinking. Better to wade back in at the shallow end than to dive into anything real.”

“Yeah. Well, what I'm worried about is you diving into the shallow end thinking it's deep.”

 

***

 

“Okay, thank you, Andrew Hozier-Byrne. That makes perfect sense now. You're delusional.” 

Castiel turned to her finally. “Maybe. But is it so hard to believe there might actually be someone in the world I could feel a connection to?”

“A human?” 

“God, I hate you.”

Madison laughed and put her arms around him. “I'm kidding. You're right. Of course you could find someone who gets you. And it doesn't surprise me at all that it could be the pretty moose with the sad eyes.”

He sighed into the hug, and put his chin on her head. “He does have sad eyes. But I'm working on that. He's been lonely too long. That's all.”

“And now you're John Paul White.”

Castiel shoved her. “Moment over. Get off me.” 

Madison shrugged. “I'm going out to find a guy drunk enough not to look too close.”

“Afraid he's gonna see the fucking fangs?”

She gave him a wink and sauntered toward the door, reaching for her keys and purse. “Call your pretty boy, make him less sad.”

A small smile lit his eyes. “No. not tonight. We spent the day together talking. I'm talked out. I think I’m going to work in the studio. Feeling a bit inspired.”

“I bet you are.”

 

***

 

“Should I call him?”

Dean's laugh sounded a little tight over the line. “Nah. You'll spoil him.” 

“Jesus, dude. I haven't done this for so long.”

“And you were never good at it.”

“Screw you!”

His brother gave him a snicker. “I'm just saying. He seems a bit alpha, Sam. Let him call you. You don't want him thinking you're that kind of girl. You're not, right?” 

“What?”

“That kind of-”

“I will reach through this phone and beat your ass.” But even as he listened to Dean laughing at him, he could hear the concern underneath. “Anyway, I'm not going to worry about anything. It's just some fun to brush off the rust, right? Training wheels, but with piercings.” And intense eyes, and deep intelligence, and cool confidence, and frightening beauty, and a voice that made him shiver down to his toes.

“Right. Just some fun,” Dean was saying. “There's a lot to be said for just bunking down with somebody for a week or two.”

“Right,” he responded hollowly. “A week or two.”

“You never told me what sort of tattoo you decided on.” 

A strange despair was settling like a rock in his stomach, straining his chest and throat with its weight. “That's because I don't know yet,” he said quietly. 

“Well, it's your birthday present, and if you need more, I'll make it your early Christmas present too.” 

Sam tried to smile. “Thank you, Dean. Really. Best brother ever.”

 

***

 

Worlds apart from opposite sides of a city, one man in a cramped apartment lay in his too-small bed on his birthday, doing his best to stop dreaming about an artist. The other stood in the studio inside a large, beautiful home, creating lines on a canvas from within a fever dream, about a man with sad eyes.


	7. Close Your Eyes, Sam

Castiel had never been a clock-watcher. He enjoyed his various jobs, and was in the enviable position that if he began to get bored with something, he could choose to move on. But boredom wasn't his problem. It was excitement.

“Bess? What time is it?” he called over his shoulder. He couldn't take his eyes off the ivy he was wrapping around a girl's ankle. But he needed to know. 

The owner’s sweet wife laughed. “Poor Cas. It's only five minutes later than the last time you asked.” 

He sighed with disappointment. 

“Can I assume you're meeting Sam again tonight?”

Castiel tried to bite down his smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? Cas, I don't think I've ever seen you so interested in anybody before.” 

“Not true. I'm interested in people in general.” 

Bess smiled through her voice. “Okay, but this one specifically.”

“Maybe,” he said again.

It was his favorite part of the day. In less than a half hour, Sam would be getting off of work. Then he would be on his way, after spending all day thinking of what he wanted to be his adventure this time, and it was up to Castiel to make it happen. Sometimes it was something that had to be planned, and they would sit at the diner talking it out and scheduling to be sure it happened. Other times, it was something spontaneous they could do right away. And Tuesday night, Sam had taken the risk of saying he wanted Castiel to choose something for him. That was the night they had each learned how terrible they both were at karaoke. It had been a wonderful night.

The minutes ticked by in an excruciating tease, but at last, Castiel was finished with the ivy, and could look at the clock himself. He grinned. “Bess? Be my hero and go over aftercare and follow up for this lovely woman.”

She nodded. “Go on. I'll lock up after you.” 

He had thrown on his black leather jacket and leapt from the shop before the words were even out of her mouth. Just as he had hoped, Sam was walking up the sidewalk toward him. His heart fluttered happily.

It was amazing what the man did to him just by approaching.

Madison was right about Castiel's uncharacteristic caution. He had never spent time in a real relationship before, not like this. He had always assumed he was immune to this lightheaded feeling. It was disappointing, in a way. He had heard so many of his friends talk about what it felt like to fall in love, and he had gotten to the point in his life that he had resigned himself to never feeling it firsthand. But this was undeniable. This was the greatest adventure Castiel himself had ever been on. 

So why didn't Sam push for more?

A tangle of frustration tightened his chest while he waited for Sam to cross the street. Castiel had decided to let Sam call the shots, to let him set the pace. Castiel didn't want Sam to feel anything less than completely in control. But after that first day's kiss, there had been only brief moments of touch. Sam initiated only the barest of kisses, the softest brushes of hands. Castiel had never had to wait like this before. Every day that went by left him aching for some intimate sign that Sam felt it too, this incredible connection between them. If he thought Sam didn't like sex, that would be different. If he thought Sam didn't like him specifically...well, that would be devastating at this point, but at least it would explain things. But he didn't think it was about that. The touches they did share seemed mutually breathtaking. So why were they so rare and so brief?

As Sam approached this time, his smile was softer than usual. Castiel watched him anxiously. “Hello, Sam?” 

“Hey, Castiel.” The younger man bent at the neck to kiss him gently.

Before Castiel had the chance even to feel it, the kiss was over. He sighed.

“Are you hungry?” 

He smirked. But he did not allow a sarcastic response to escape. “A little. Diner?”

Sam was wringing his hands. He cleared his throat twice. “No. I mean, yeah, that's fine, but...I know what I want to do tonight. If you're up for it.” 

Castiel watched him with interest. “Awesome. What's on tonight?” 

The man wasn't meeting his eyes.

He frowned. He had thought they were past that by now. “Sam?”

Sam took a shallow breath and plunged in. “It's been a really long day at work,” he began. “My boss-”

“The big Dick,” Castiel clarified.

He snorted softly. “Mr. Roman is a lot to handle some days. And-and I'm worn out. But I don't want to miss...I guess this is silly, but, Cas, I look forward all day to seeing you, and…”

His frown deepened. Silly? That statement was the strangest mixed signal he had received yet.

“I think I'd like you to be the risk I take today.” 

Castiel's eyebrows shot up. “What?” 

Sam was pinkening in the face, and his long throat was beginning to glisten with sweat. But he plowed forward. “Cas, are we dating?”

Blue eyes blinked.

“Because...because I don't really know what...I mean, look. Whatever this is, I like it. I'll take it. But if there's-if you're feeling anything at all here…” Sam stood to his full height and squared his shoulders as if he were ready to defend himself physically. “I promised myself I'd take a risk, do something that scared me. So here it is. Today's terrifying thing is you.” 

Castiel was rarely without words. He didn't speak much throughout the day, because he was busy observing and working, listening. But he hadn't experienced the phenomenon of being at a loss for words. He was suddenly at a hopeless loss with Sam.

The man he was falling entirely in love with was shaking his head now. Soft hair fell in front of his eyes. “Cas...please. I don't want to screw anything up. What we’re doing is the best thing that's ever happened to me. So if this is as far as it goes, I'm still grateful-” 

The words were out of his mouth before he had even thought them. “You mean I can go farther?”

Sam stopped, with his mouth still open.

Castiel felt heat on his cheeks, and wondered what that was about, until he realized with complete exasperation that he was blushing. In his whole life, he couldn't remember that ever happening before. What the hell was it about this man that threw him off so?

“Cas?” 

It was his turn to be called back to the conversation. “I'm sorry. Fuck. Sam, what are you saying? Are you saying you want more from me? Because, Sam, I can be more. I'm just waiting for you to decide what you want. I've known I want you from the first moment I saw you. So you're in charge here.” 

Fear flushed Sam's face, and it broke Castiel's heart a little to see it. “So...sex? I mean…” 

Realization settled into Castiel's stomach. He sighed and moved toward him, seeking the eyes Sam was trying to hide under his hair. “Definitely sex, Sam. But you think that'll be it, don't you? That after sex, I'll lose interest?” He whispered his words so that Sam couldn't move away if he wanted to hear. It had taken a long time, but he thought perhaps he had finally figured out Sam's worries. He wanted to be certain. “Sam, you still haven't shown me the scars you say are your worst.” 

A tiny whimper of pain escaped soft lips. “Cas, I really am okay with just this. Just...you know, we can be friends right? When you need someone else. You don't have to...move on completely, right? We could still be this. At-at least sometimes. When you need to move on, it's cool. I get that. I've heard you and Madison, and I talked to Kate when I waited for you the other day. I know you aren't the kind who-who can be with just one person. And even if you were…” Those hazel eyes were sparkling too much now, and he had to stop to swallow. “Even if you were, I'm still me. Right? So...so I said I'd risk something, and here it is. I want you. And I think, if you want me too, I'd like to be with you tonight. But I just want you to know I understand that...Cas, when you see me, and...And anyway, you're a lot more-more experienced than I am, so...I just get it, okay? That I'm probably screwing it all up right now. But I want you, and I'm going to risk you flying away after tonight. Please.” 

As it turned out, Castiel was completely capable of falling in love. That had shocked him so much that he hadn't considered that it meant he could also have his heart shattered. He suddenly couldn't take a breath without feeling pain in his chest.

Sam was trembling. He could feel it as much as he could see it. “Please,” he said again. “I know I can't be enough for you, but if we both close our eyes, maybe I can be enough for a night.”

Needles hurt for a moment. There was no doubt about that. He would never tell a customer it wouldn't hurt, and they wouldn't believe him if he tried. Everyone knew that getting pierced, getting inked, getting spiked, it all hurt. And he supposed it was commonly known that love did too. But he had never felt anything like this before. He felt as though a needle were slamming into his chest.

A tear slipped down that beautiful face as Sam tried to smile. “There,” he choked. “You've coached me into taking a risk every day since we met. Now I've finally risked everything and lost it all.” He nodded. “It's okay. I understand. I hope you'll...hope you'll still do my arms for me. You-you've spoiled me on anyone else's-on any artwork that isn't yours, and…” He gasped in a sob, and began to back away.

Castiel reached for him, caught him before he could turn. The words still weren't coming, so he trusted his instinct instead, and grabbed hold of the man in an almost vicious kiss. He turned them without even meaning to, and pushed Sam back to brace him against the wall of the shop. One hand was behind Sam's head, gripping the hair he adored, and protecting him from the stone; the other hand was at the man's hip, holding him tight between the surface and his own body. He felt Sam surrender to the wall, and finally to him.

“Cas,” he whimpered each time the artist let him breathe. “Castiel!” 

Hearing his name sung out so desperately, in a voice full of want, Castiel felt his blood burn through him like never before. Wasn't it amazing, the way Sam brought things to float up in Castiel he didn't even know were deep inside?

“Cas, please,” Sam groaned at last, pushing at the artist's chest gently.

It took all his discipline-which he admittedly used very infrequently-to peel himself from Sam. He braced himself on the stone wall with both hands, effectively caging Sam, but backing off of him. 

Sam seemed smaller than before. It was strange, and a little jarring, to see the eyes darkening with both lust and fear, and to watch this large man shrink into himself before him. 

He licked his lips, and took a breath. “Sam? I'm in love with you.” 

The man let his head fall back against the stone. The fear permeated from his skin. “No, you're not.” 

So he said it again, and punctuated it with a kiss at his jaw. “Sam, I'm in love with you.”

The head was still shaking.

“Sam, I'm in love with you.” He said it into his delicious throat this time. 

His answer was another whimper. 

Castiel smiled into the throat, and he worked his way up to Sam's ear. “Sam?”

The man held his breath. 

“I'm in love with you,” he whispered. 

“You can't be.” 

At last, he took Sam's hand, tangling their fingers, and he brought the wrist up to his lips. He kissed and breathed over the scars, “Sam, I'm in love with all of you.” 

Shaking sobs wracked Sam's body now, and Castiel slipped under an arm to hold him.

“So, yes. We’re going to have sex. And we're going to make love. And we aren't going to close our eyes, because you're enough and I'm enough, and we're more than enough together. And not just for a night. For as long as you still want me, I'll be wanting you.”

“You-you haven't even-even seen me…” 

Castiel smiled. He put both arms around Sam, and held him tight. “I've seen you,” he argued softly. “Maybe you haven't noticed. But I've seen you. Will you come to my place? Mads is out. I have something I need you to see.”

Sam sniffed and nodded. “I'll go anywhere.” He sounded utterly exhausted, but at last he sounded hopeful.

“I'll take you everywhere,” Castiel promised. “But first, let's go home.” 

A tiny smile brightened Sam's eyes, which he flicked at Castiel's motorcycle. “Can you drive? I just feel like holding on tonight.”

“You hold on. I'll watch over you.”


	8. Prana

Sam burrowed into Castiel's warmth on the way to his house. It was so unlike him to put his complete trust into anyone else. The only people who had ever earned that were Dean and Jess.

God, Jess. If he could see Sam now, what would he think? “I'm trying, Jesse,” he muttered to himself, into Castiel's jacket. “You always thought I could be something. You didn't think I was a freak. I'm the one who always thought that. I'm the one who wanted so badly to be normal, because I felt so out of place everywhere I went. You thought I was special. And I told you that you were wrong, that I was messed up. And I _was_ messed up, Jess. I don't know if you ever even found out how messed up. But I'm better now, Jess. I'm sorry I couldn't pull it together in time for you. But maybe this time…” He squeezed Castiel tighter.

“You all right?” the man called back in his gruff voice. 

Sam closed his eyes and smiled. “Yeah. I'm good.”

When the bike finally found its way to a private drive at the edge of the city, Sam stared. “You live here?” he cried as Castiel turned off the motor.

The helmets came off, and Sam couldn't help smiling at that too. Castiel had begun carrying a second helmet after that first day together. “I live here,” Castiel confirmed. “And so does Madison when she's couch surfing.”

Sam gave a low whistle. “I can see why! It's beautiful, Cas!” He began to laugh as they dismounted and began to walk toward the front door. “Didn't you joke about me being sent from the landlady when we first met?”

“Maybe.” Castiel winked at him. “Disappointed that I'm not living the starving artist life?”

“Uh, no. Maybe a little surprised. But not disappointed. I don't think I've ever met a successful artist before.” 

Castiel gave a snort. “Luck and hard work are more important than talent. And that's how I know a true artist when I see one. If I can visualize a kid pushing to be heard in a crowd, somebody who can get mud thrown in his face and get inspired instead of bitter, a kid who can harden instead of shatter, and comes out better than before when he gets shoved, if he's got a bit of talent too, that's an artist.”

“What if he has all that but doesn't have the talent?”

The man stopped at his front door and turned to Sam. The intensity of his blue stare melted Sam's insides. “Then that's a warrior. And sometimes warriors have battle scars, Sam. But that doesn't mean they're not strong. It means they fought hard. Only survivors have scars, Sam. And every survivor has scars.” He shrugged then, and released his lock on Sam's gaze. “Or they have some talent, and they become artists instead.” He unlocked the door, and walked into the house.

The words stunned Sam into paralysis. It took nearly a full minute of trying to breathe properly before he could follow. Castiel was patiently waiting in a beautiful foyer, removing some of his piercings to place in a blue clay bowl on the side table. Sam swallowed hard, and forced himself to speak. “Artists don't have scars?” 

Castiel smiled, as if the question pleased him somehow. “No. We have our creations. We have something wonderful that the rest of the world doesn't. We have a way to take pain and loss from our own souls, and seal it away in another form. If it finds its way home again, we seal it tighter next time. Some of us paint it into canvas, and some carve it into wood, shape it into clay, or wrap it into words, or ink it into skin. Some of us create horrible things from it, sometimes beautiful things. But it's all the same. It's all made of pain and loss. The more prolific the artist, the more scars he would have if he didn't create from it. And if an artist is also a hard worker and has a little luck, he can be successful.” 

Sam nodded at him with fascination. 

“Only difference between my scars and yours, Sam?” He pulled off his jacket, and took off his black tee, then turned slowly to reveal an altar to madness, geometry and sacrament, which took Sam's breath away. “I can make mine express whatever I want. And I'll do the same for you, when you're ready.” 

At last, Sam found his voice. “I think you're beautiful. And you do terrify me. But only because you're the most important thing that's ever happened to me.”

Castiel turned back around, and stared at him. “Important,” he repeated.

Sam searched the handsome face for a clue as to what the man was thinking. “Yes,” he made himself say. “Important.”

A flash of wonder crossed Castiel's eyes, then he closed the distance between them. “I want you, Sam. Please.” 

The voice was raw and rough, and it made Sam sigh to hear it. “Yeah,” he breathed back. “Where can we go?” 

The smile of triumph was a little feral, and Sam shivered with pleasure at how much Castiel clearly wanted to touch him. He took hold of Sam's hand and led him to a large bedroom, furnished in antiques and decorated in disjointed murals all about the walls.

Sam stood, stunned, at the entrance. 

Castiel's nostrils flared in frustration. “What's wrong?”

“You sleep here?” 

At last, the man laughed. “Why are you so shocked by my house?” 

He smiled too. “I don't know. I must have pictured you in the tattoo studio so many times, I guess I forgot you don't live there. Your walls…”

Castiel chuckled, and ran a hand through his long hair on the right side. “Yes. I paint and draw on my walls. Just like I do on my skin. My sister Naomi used to throw a fit when I drew on things. I etched a carving into a desk over the course of a year during weekly detention at school. I went back and bought it from the district years later, and broke it down to just the table top. It's hanging in my studio downstairs. I paid for one desk. They probably could have sold it for enough for a class set of desks if they could have authenticated it.” He shrugged. “I'm not going to let someone tell me I can't write on my own walls now that they're my walls.”

Sam grinned at him. “Weekly detention, huh?”

“I annoyed my teachers. Especially the ones who didn't like it when I drew on kids who fell asleep in class.” He took Sam's hand again. “In fact...come here.”

“What are you doing?” 

Castiel took him to the bed, and lay him out on top of it. “Be still, okay?”

“Cas?”

The blue eyes were full of quiet excitement now. “Please, Sam. It's something I've always wanted to do...that I've never done with anyone.”

This intrigued him. “You mean...I could be an adventure for you?”

“Would you mind that?”

Sam watched him bite into his lower lip. “I'd love that.” He shook his head and stared up at the man. His heart was racing, but he was surprisingly calm. He was safe here.

So there was a little anxiety as Castiel slowly, carefully disrobed him from the waist up, but it was soon overtaken by a feeling of complete trust and security. He was in Castiel's able hands now. He had done his terrifying thing for the day, and admitted the depth of his emotions to Castiel. And it had been all right. This felt all right too. This felt like love.

The artist took a brush from his desk, and made his way back to where Sam was lying on the bed with his heart and chest exposed.

“This brush is too soft,” he murmured. “I haven't used it in years. But I've never been good at giving up my old tools. I guess I'm always worried one day I'll find the perfect canvas for a brush I lost along the way, and I'll never be able to create with it...I use mostly charcoal or pencil lately. Or I did. Till I met you. Now it's back to brushes. I can't stop painting since I first saw your eyes.”

“You're not going to paint me, are you?” Sam laughed nervously. 

“Not the way you mean,” said Castiel, in a voice barely over a whisper. Then he leaned down and placed a kiss above Sam's navel. Then he took the brush and lightly stroked in a circle over the spot. “This is where your third chakra lies. The Upanishads called it manipura. It is a place of power, and your prana, your life force, pulses out from it.”

“My manipura is ticklish, Cas.”

The man sort of giggled, then became serious again. He continued his invisible painting, and Sam's stomach gradually became less sensitive to the circling bristles. “This is where your will is.”

“My will?” 

“Will. Will power. Your self-discipline. Your inner strength. It's where your fire is.” 

“I didn't know I had a fire.”

“Hush.” 

Sam laughed, but stayed still. 

“Of course you have a fire. And it's got to be kept in balance. If your manipura gets out of control, you turn into a dick.”

“Sounds awful.”

“It is. But if it isn't active enough, you begin to doubt yourself. You doubt your own strength, your own emotions, your whole identity.”

Sam watched him with adoration as he added light strokes to his circles.

“So it's important that we keep you balanced. Because I don't want you to be a dick. And I don't want you to doubt your own power. The third chakra is very important to a warrior. Loss of self is loss of the whole battle.” 

“How do you learn all this if you don't trust the internet?”

Castiel smirked. “I spent nine months in a Hindu monastery in Nepal. Shut up.”

“Of course you did.”

“So this center of self is what pulses out your life force.” Castiel let the brush wisp out over Sam's skin in all directions, acting like streams from a single spring. “Your prana flows out as strength or as fear, depending on the state of your chakra. It's why your stomach sometimes hurts when you're nervous. Your manipura is located just over and through your digestive system.”

Sam might have replied, but then Castiel began to gently pull off Sam's shirts entirely, then reached down to remove his shoes and socks as well. He wrinkled his nose as Castiel began to brush over his feet too.

“These chakras are all about connection to the earth. Grounding. They keep you connected with nature and the earth’s energy. It feeds your spirit.” 

Slowly, Castiel painted over Sam's arms, his throat, his chest, murmuring about chakras and balance. Then he eased Sam out of his trousers, but left the boxers on. He continued his work over Sam's legs. Finally, he reached up and kissed Sam's lips reverently. “Will you turn so I can see your back?”

Sam obeyed. His friend’s voice and the movement of the brush were lulling him into a trance. He felt as though Castiel were worshipping him. He listened, and tracked the brush over his spine, and he didn't even recoil when Castiel slipped his fingers under the band of his boxers and gently pulled them off too. He smiled a little at the happy sigh Castiel let out. He was exposed. Exposed, vulnerable. But he was safe. He had been right to trust this artist. Despite his rough exterior, he was a gentle guru underneath. Sam wasn't afraid anymore.

The brush worked its way along his spine, down to paint every part of him. When he opened his legs very slightly, Castiel's voice went husky with want. The sure hand seemed to be trembling minutely, though Sam couldn't be sure. “And will you show me the scars on your thighs?” 

Sam sighed. But he nodded, and turned, and waited. He wasn't afraid like before, that Castiel would be disgusted. But the ages-old shame stung him all the same. The scars were far worse now than when Jess had seen them. They were just faded lines back then. No one but the emergency room staff had seen them since he had been at his lowest points.

Castiel's fingers touched his cheek to reassure him, then he ran them gently over the scars themselves, ignoring for the moment that Sam was nude and focusing only on his vulnerable nakedness. Sam looked at the handsome face. The fingers explored the ridges and welts of Sam's mottled skin.

In time, he looked up and smiled at Sam. “I can work with this canvas,” he promised, then he moved his own body over Sam's to hold him.

Sam smiled, and let a tear slide back into his hair. “Thank you,” he murmured back.

“Are you feeling all right now?” 

“Are you?”

“Sam, I'm feeling things I've never even imagined.”

“Must be my healthy manipura.”

A brilliant grin flashed onto Castiel's face then, and the somber tone between them melted into laughter. They spent the rest of the night bringing their chakras into balance with one another.


	9. Take Me to Church

This was the church Castiel had sought all his life. He wanted to curl himself around Sam and protect him forever, worship him forever. Because if there were a god, and if angels were real, Castiel could only see them in Sam's eyes.

 “You're an atheist?”

“I subscribe to the death of God philosophy. Which isn't exactly the same thing.”

Sam was smiling. He was stretched out on the large bed, holding Castiel against his chest. But it was obvious he was smiling. “I see.” 

“In high school, I called myself a militant agnostic.”

His lover snorted.

“Because I didn't know, but neither did anyone else.”

“Of course.” 

He laughed quietly. “But I kept studying art and philosophy and humanity in general, and I've come to decide that Nietzsche and his buddies were closer to reality. And it isn't so much that God’s literally dead, per se, but that he's moved on.” 

“A little bit of cosmic attention deficit.”

“Exactly. There's a phrase that's stuck with me for my whole adulthood. I read it my freshman year at Yale, and it's haunted me. ‘If God is God He is not good. If God is good He is not God. Take the even; take the odd.’ And I've been searching for Him ever since, so that I can finally ask what He thinks of that accusation.” 

Sam was thoughtful. “I'm only a Stanford grad. You'll have to explain that to me.”

He cackled at him. “I love you, Sam Winchester.”

“I love you. So?”

“So it means if God is truly good, He would step up and slay the evil in the world. Unless of course he can't. Which makes him not God. Either he's omnipotent and cold, or he's good and limited. Otherwise, how do we explain why bad things happen to good people, or why good things sometimes happen to bad people. Why are bees dying in their hives if God is both good and omnipotent? Are the bees being punished for something? Or is the rest of the world being punished? If so, why are the bees the ones who have to take the fall for all of us assholes?”

“What about the Devil?”

“The Devil was God’s creation, one of his first and his favorite.”

“We didn't learn that in Composition of Contracts and Briefs.”

“You should have. It's good stuff. And it’s why laws even have to exist. Because if everyone were truly good, we would just call them suggestions. Guidelines.” 

Sam nodded. “Because we're all assholes, we need laws.” 

“Right.” 

“You said I wasn't an asshole. My chakra is all good, remember?”

Castiel smirked up at him. “Not all of us are assholes. But humans do some pretty evil things. How important is lipstick to you, Sam?” 

“Not very.” 

“Would it in any way impede our relationship if I were to rescue chimpanzees and keep them in my home?” 

Sam sighed. “I'd still be hopelessly in love with you. From a distance.” 

“These are things we should establish early in the relationship. So I can rescue chimpanzees, but you'd prefer I didn't live with them. Noted.” 

“You'd probably draw on them.”

“I probably would.”

They spent nearly two hours in meandering, seamless conversation, while constantly touching one another's skin with restless fingers and soft lips. Making love to Sam had been the single best idea Castiel had ever had. It was fascinating how different sex was with someone he truly loved. He was more content lying there next to Sam than he had ever felt in his life. Sam's dry humor was the perfect combination of cynical and intelligent but somehow shy and hopeful. Castiel himself was a strange combination of street-smart and yet cloud-headed. 

Sam was both delightful inspiration and sensible grounding for an artist like Castiel.

And now he was asleep, and Castiel knew, beyond any doubt, that he could sleep beside this man forever. Even the guy's snore was considerately adorable.

Castiel thought about all the men and women he had been with, and all those he would miss out on if he tried settling into a relationship with Sam. He found that he couldn't remember former lovers clearly, and couldn't imagine anyone new being attractive. Not now that he had painted over Sam's body. Not now that they had shared scars.

He was disinclined to untangle himself from Sam, so he reached to his side table to find a black fine-tip marker waiting for him, as always. He took hold of the heavy arm holding him, and gently turned it. Then he began to draw over Sam's wrists.

He fell deeper with every line.


	10. Animal Spirit

Sam couldn't remember the last time he had slept so well, and that was strange, since he was in an unfamiliar place with a man he had never slept with before-and he hadn't slept with anyone since Jess. But the emotional and sexual releases had allowed him to rest like he hadn't in years.

Upon waking, he smiled at Castiel happily. The man was face down in the pillow, with one leg caging Sam in, and one arm under Sam's head. He lifted himself silently, and pulled out of Castiel's insistent reach. It took a while to get away; every time he moved too much, his lover frowned and moved to capture him again. At last, he stood over Castiel and watched him sigh with defeat and push his face further into the pillow. 

The artist was still gloriously naked. As much as Sam appreciated the lovely bare backside, he feared it might be cold, so he covered Castiel with the blanket. The warmth immediately restored Castiel's deep sleep.

Sam sniggered quietly, and kissed the man's head. Then he sought out and put on his shorts from last night and padded into the bathroom. He might not have bothered turning on a light at all, but after using the toilet, he decided he wanted to find some mouthwash. That was when he saw that Castiel wasn't the only one who slept soundly while the other was active.

He smiled to himself. He found and used the mouthwash, but he couldn't take his eyes off the intricate designs all over his skin. They laced around his wrists like they grew from inside him. One was a simple, thick rope, tied to knot above his palm, with a cut through it along the delicate wrist bone connected to his thumb, as if he were being released from capture. The second wrist displayed a wild, sprawling tree, whose roots were tangled around Sam's arm, and branches were bare but for a single crow who kept watch. 

Sam stared at them, then looked up at the mirror to frown. He slowly brought his two arms together, crossing in front of his chest, to find that it was the crow who had cut the rope on the other arm. 

“Wow,” he cried hoarsely. “He did all that in the dark while I was asleep?”

The art was incredible. Sam was still gazing down at the way the image from one arm completed the one from the other, as he returned to the bed. The moment he lay down, however, the artist himself grabbed hold of his wayward lover, and locked him in again.

Sam laughed. “Didn't peg you for a cuddler.”

“Just like knowing where my favorite things are.” Castiel's voice was muffled in Sam's shoulder. “I find it easier to keep track when I'm lying on top of them.”

“Or drawing on them.”

At last, Castiel poked his head up. “Oh yeah. How'd that turn out?”

Sam sighed happily. 

It was over breakfast that Sam remembered what Castiel had said the day before. “Hey. This all started because you said you had something to show me.”

Blue eyes looked up over a feast of fruit and granola. “What?” he muttered.

“You aren't a morning person, are you?”

“I'm an artist.” 

“That doesn't...that's not one of the choices. Art doesn't only take place at a certain time of day.” 

Castiel shrugged. “That's true. But it only takes place when I'm awake. And I'm usually not this early.” 

“But that's not because you're an artist,” Sam pointed out with a snicker.

“Everything is because I'm an artist.” 

Sam shook his head. “Maybe in addition to being an artist, you're also a whiny human.”

“Same thing.” He stretched his arms over his head and then began to laugh.

“What?” 

“You! Looking at me like that!”

He ducked under his hair, but smiled. “Like you're the hottest thing I've ever seen? Like when you stretch like that with no shirt on, it makes me want to jump you?”

“God, you're fucking amazing. You're a fucking masterpiece, and I'm a damn scribble, and you're looking at me like I belong in the Louvre.”

Sam blinked at him. As was usually the case when around this man, words just fell out of his mouth. “How can you say that?” he breathed. “I know you know how good looking you are!” 

Castiel continued to laugh, but it was quieter than before. “Sam, I'm very confident in what I am. But I'm not delusional. I know what I'm not. But it's nice that you're delusional. I appreciate that.”

In that moment, Sam's entire world went sideways. He stared at Castiel with disbelief bordering on awe. “You're wrong,” he blurted out in fascination.

Dark brows lifted. “What?”

“You are. You're wrong. Just like…” Sam's mind was whirring with new understanding. “Like my brother. I never understood how he could be so unaware of how smart he is. And you. You really don't know how beautiful you are.” 

Now those eyes were narrowing, almost suspiciously.

Sam huffed out a laugh. “Wow.” He felt a strange tightening of his throat. “I guess...I don't think I ever really believed anybody like Dean or you, confident, charismatic people like the two of you…” 

Castiel sat back with a dry smile. “Are you trying to say you thought everybody but you had their act together?” 

At that, Sam's throat relaxed with a laugh, and tears blurred his eyes before he blinked it away. “That sounds so stupid when you say it like that.”

“Sam, you don't run the market on insecurity. Okay? I have the advantage that I can see what I'm good at. I know I'm smart. I'm a fucking genius. But I can also be an idiot. Madison says I'm the smartest airhead she knows. I had to stop smoking years back because I turn into a damn pothead cliché when I smoke. I'm a fucking warrior when I have to be. But I would rather just intimidate the crap out of anyone who tries to fuck with me. I'm talented, but I'm a pain in the ass to work with. And I'm decorated. That isn't the same as being good looking. I know what I'm good at, and that's enough to give me the confidence I need. But don't think for a second I'm not every bit as insecure as anybody else. For one thing, I've got an imposter’s syndrome like you wouldn't believe. And probably a God complex too. God is my daddy issues.” 

Sam couldn't help smiling at him. 

The blue eyes rolled. “Laugh all you want. Till yesterday, I was starting to get all sorts of insecure about you. Hot guy, clearly gay, clearly likes hanging out with me, but won't do more than peck at me? Starting to think he's just not that into me. I would've waited forever, but it sure wasn't good for a fragile ego. Turns out, it doesn't matter how many men or women I've slept with, or who've said I'm attractive. If Sam Winchester doesn't want me, none of their opinions matter, because you're the one I want.”

The man chewed on his lip, then shrugged. “Now.”

Castiel's face softened. “Always,” he corrected. “And I do have something to show you, now that we're both awake. It's in my studio.” He took hold of Sam's hand and tugged him through the house, down a set of stairs. 

Inside the massive art studio, it was as though Martha Stewart and Tim Burton had tried working together, but all they could agree on was black.

“You're staring.” 

“I can't not stare.” 

“Sam, it's just a basement.”

“It's a museum of punk metal and goth. It's like Better Homes and Gardens as published by Rob Zombie.” 

“I'll assume you mean that in a nice way.”

“This has to be the most enormous angsty teenage bedroom I've ever seen. The whole basement. Angsty teenage bedroom.”

Castiel frowned at him. “I'm not angsty!”

“You're also not a teenager. But your studio is entirely made of punk and grunge and actual antique goth stuff.”

“It's just stuff I like!” 

Sam began to laugh. “I'm sorry, Cas. I don't know what I expected. But this wasn't it.”

Castiel scowled. “You want a starving artist? Fuck that. I like toys. And I like punk and grunge, and metal too. And I like antiques. So screw you.”

But Sam was drawn in by a particular feature on the wall. He approached it slowly. “Did you-Is this yours?”

“Yeah. Mads bought it at a gallery with my credit card, and hung it there. She said she didn't realize it was mine, and thought I'd like it. I actually lost money on that stupid transaction. Could've throttled her.”

“It's breathtaking.”

Castiel looked up at him. “Thank you.” 

“No, Cas, look at it. It's...wow.”

He laughed quietly. “Sam? You've seen my portfolio.”

“But this is the real thing! This is...Whoa.” Sam had been staring at the painting at the entrance so intently that he hadn't realized the entire back of the room was covered in projects. Some were lying askew against the wall, some were on easels, some were decorating the floor in piles. There was a small, open room, in which a long drafting table was entirely covered in sketches.

“I've been busy lately,” Castiel murmured. “I clean out my inventory every month, and give it to my dealer Sarah, who sells it or lends it to galleries. I don't keep things. Madison's one and only job is to collect everything I've got, take it to Kate to photograph it, and then deliver it to Sarah. That happens like clockwork on the first of every month. On the first, Madison clears the place out, and the housekeeper comes. Then I start creating again. The place was empty on the first.” 

“It's the twenty-first.” 

Castiel looked around them. “Yeah,” he breathed. “It is.”

“Cas...there must be hundreds of things here!”

“Yeah. There are.” He smiled. “Look closer.” 

Sam could feel the artist watching him as he stepped through the flood of artwork. He was afraid to touch anything.

“Go on,” he coaxed.

“Cas, are these…”

“Sam, they're you. Everything around you. It's all you. The only ones that aren't you are the ones that are me wanting you. It's all you, Sam. I can't stop. It's like a constant stream of emotions and imagery...You say I only want you now. When I say I want you always...Sam, I've never felt anything like you before.”

“The crow,” Sam cried hoarsely. “Is the crow...you?”

Castiel reached down and held up the sketch that had caught Sam's eye. “The bird is the part of you that always keeps fighting, Sam.”

“Why a crow?” Tears were welling in his eyes. 

“It isn't a crow. It's a raven. Ravens are survivors. Protectors. They are the prophets. They are immortal and wise. They need no one. They protect those who are worthy. The raven is your will, Sam. Steadfast and courageous, defiant, intelligent.”

Tears trickled down over his hand, which trembled at his lips. “Cas,” he sighed, because he wasn't at all sure what to say.

Castiel pushed forward. “This is your soul,” he explained, pointing at a drawing nearby.

A bright burst of light exploded from the page, and it seemed to embody grace. Sam stared at it in awe. 

“This green I keep using, that's your intelligence. I use it all over, and it's always this down to earth, dry humor, and somehow I see it in green. Maybe because of your eyes. I don't know. Every time I try to capture your personality, you come out green.”

“What about this?” he murmured.

Castiel smiled. “That? That's...that's Madison's fault.”

Sam held up the small painting of what appeared to be a fantasy beast. “What is it?” 

“It's...an argument.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“About whether you are a moose or a puppy. And I might have had a contact high from the concert we had been to that night. So when we argued about what animal you most resemble...I may have created the Puppy-Moose.”

“Let me guess…”

“Mads calls you the Moppy now. It was Pussy, so that's an improvement.” 

“Please don't get high and draw me as a cartoon anymore.” 

Castiel scoffed. “This is a professionally designed creature. The anatomy is physiologically brilliant, and it's fucking majestic. You should see my depiction of you as an angel from that same night. You're in the form of a multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent. It's fucking gorgeous.”

At last, Sam burst into laughter and sobs at the same time, and he was happier than he had ever been in his life. “My brother is going to love the Moppy.”

Castiel grinned.


	11. Revealed

Castiel had long ago become immune to the cringe on his clients’ faces as he worked. But this one was different.

“It's fine. I told you.”

“I've done plenty of tats for friends,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Even bed-friends. But this...It's not just the usual-I mean, it's your first one.” 

“You're my first in a lot of ways, Cas,” Sam gritted out.

“Need me to stop? It's actually better if we don't, but…” 

“Castiel.” Sam was shaking his head at him, making him feel even more ridiculous. “Stop. This isn't near as bad as what I did to get those scars in the first place. Different kind of hurt, but not near as bad.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Sam laughed a little. “Dude, stop worrying. If you screw up because you're anxious about it, that's going to get awkward for us.”

Castiel laughed back, and renewed his focus. He murmured the words to a Croatoan song to keep his mind off Sam's slight grimace.

When at last they had finished, Castiel sat back and stretched. He rubbed at his eyes, then smiled up at Sam. “So?”

Pleasure darkened Sam's eyes above his soft smile. “I love it. I really love it.”

The raven and tree on the left arm, releasing Sam from his bonds on the right, those had come out beautifully. The wicked black dagger serving as a bookmark inside an old tome, that was downright sexy on Sam's side. But today's session had finished his thighs.

The mandala designs had been the perfect coverage for the scars. Sam sighed with relief. “Thank you, Cas.” 

“This one was all you,” he reminded him proudly. “I like the words you had me work in.”

“I promised Dean I would always keep fighting. He promised me I would never be alone. So those seemed like the phrases that would give me the most strength when I needed it. Always fight. Never alone.” He nodded. “I do love it, Cas. It's like stained glass. You're incredible. Thank you. For everything.”

“Ready to show Dean?”

“Yeah. The arms, and the dagger and book. But…”

“But some tats are just for you. I'll see them. Just like you've seen all of mine. But they're still just for you.”

Sam looked at peace in a way Castiel hadn't seen yet. It was gratifying. “Let's go get our lunch.”

Castiel had opened the studio on a Sunday just for Sam, and now he locked it up behind them. They walked to the diner, leaning in on one another. Neither of them liked public displays of affection, though for different reasons, so that was generally as close as they came most days. Considering that both their first kiss and first confessions of love were on the city sidewalks, they were hardly against it altogether. But just like tattoos, some touches were only meant to be for them.

But Dean rolled his eyes anyway. “I really did send you to a gay tat artist,” he grumbled as watched them. He was leaning on the same patch of wall Sam had, on that first Saturday afternoon.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “He's bi.”

“Does that matter while he's with you?”

Castiel snorted. “I don't stop being bisexual because I'm with a man any more than I become straight when I'm with a woman.”

Dean was scowling at him darkly.

“Dean. Stop! You're snarling!”

“I'm not snarling. I'm observing. With my eyes.”

This time, Castiel gave him a smirk. “Maybe I'm not the only bisexual man here.” He laughed when each brother dropped his mouth open. “It's okay, Sam. I'm used to guys being intimidated and starting to posture. I bring that out in insecure straight men.”

“Sam? I might have to kick his ass.”

“See?” the artist said. “Typical affronted-masculinity response.”

Dean glared.

The younger man sighed heavily. “Okay, good talk. Are you two eating or should I just get myself a sandwich while you wail on each other?”

Castiel smiled cooly at Dean. “Your call. I could go for either, though they do make a good burger.”

“Yeah?” Dean looked like he was trying not to smile now. “Better be, if I'm giving up kicking your ass for it.”

“We could always go a round after.”

Dean hummed in consideration. “Could. I gotta get back on the road soon though. Really only have time for one or the other.” He turned to Sam, who was rolling his eyes. “Burger’s really good?”

Sam sighed again. “I'm going to kick both your asses,” he threatened, and turned to walk into the diner alone. 

This seemed to amuse Dean, and he laughed as he followed. “Okay. Show me the ink, kiddo!”

Castiel sat back in his corner of the booth when they were seated, listening to the brothers admire his work. He heard Dean react when Sam crossed his arms to reveal the raven’s role in freeing Sam, and smiled to himself when Dean expressed excitement over the dagger and tome. Then he watched the green eyes soften as Sam quietly described his thighs, and the words of strength etched into the mandala design.

When emotion seemed to strike Sam suddenly, he whispered to Castiel to order for him, then slipped away to the restroom. Castiel watched him go with a smile.

“The tats are incredible. Thank you. I owe you anything?”

He huffed a small laugh. “No. What you gave him covered most of it,” he lied.

Dean looked unconvinced. “Seriously. I'll pay for it. It's worth whatever it costs. You deserve to get paid for your work, and to see him like this...I'll pay whatever the difference is.”

“Dean, it's all right. He needed a lot of work done to successfully cover all the scars. But it was my pleasure. He's got no idea how much it should all cost, and I'm okay with that. If it makes him happier inside his own body, I don't need anything else.”

The voice was low. “I've never seen him as confident as he seems right now. It's like he's aged five years since I saw him a few weeks back. I'm guessing that has to do with more than just tattoos.”

Castiel shrugged. “He's going to take his bar exam.”

Dean froze.

He wasn't sure what sort of reaction that was, so he pressed on. “It's all he has left to do. So he's going to cut back to actually working the forty hours a week he's supposed to work, and he's getting back to studying. I'm going to cut back a little myself in the evenings, so I can cook for him, and work in my studio while he studies there. Moral support, mostly.”

Dean smiled with grateful surprise. “You had me at cook for him. If you can make sure that kid of mine eats regular, I'll be your best man at the wedding.”

“Good,” Castiel remarked. “Because I plan to marry your brother.”

He shook his head in wonder. “Gotta say, man. You didn't strike me as the settling kind.”

Castiel licked his lips and narrowed his blue stare. “Sam and I have a bit of a pact. We each try to help the other do things that scare him. Your brother has been playing things safe his whole life, by not taking chances. He works as a paralegal in case he couldn't make it as a lawyer, for example. Being a paralegal is a solid job, an important one. And he's damn good at it. If that were all he wanted, it'd be perfect for him. But it isn't all he wants. So I'm giving him the support he needs to take a risk, and I'll be there for him, succeed or fail.”

“And you?”

He shrugged. “A long time ago, I determined that living fast and hard was a hell of a lot easier than slowing down and building something that lasts. The idea of making anything permanent has always scared the shit out of me. Committing to a tattoo isn't like committing to a man. And now I've found someone who is worth committing to, and I sure as fuck don't want to lose it because I'm scared. Sam is something special, something fucking real. I'll fight for that. And he’ll help me figure out how to do the rest.” 

Dean was still shaking his head. “He's been burned bad, man.” 

“I know. And it's weird. Knowing Sam has been through grief makes me want to take better care of myself, so he doesn't have to go through it all again because of me. I noticed it about a week ago. I started fucking laughing at a stop sign when I realized I hadn't just blown through it. Sam survived Jesse’s death, and over a thousand hard days since, not to mention chronic depression and anxiety from long before that. The least I can do is not be a dick and get myself killed doing something stupid. And that's when I also realized I should probably plan to marry the guy who makes me want to take better care of myself.”

The guy was smiling at him. “He know that?”

“Just figured it out myself. But today is his turn to pick the adventure, and that was introducing us and showing you his ink. Tomorrow's my day to choose the adventure. I'm going to ask him to move in with me completely. And two days after that, assuming I get a yes tomorrow, I'm going to ask him to marry me. So yeah. Turns out, I'm the settling kind. Who fucking knew?”

“Isn't that kind of fast?”

Castiel sat back with a shrug. “Maybe. But I've never been more sure about anything. All the people around me have all been looking for lovers. My whole life, I've been looking for a savior. Sam isn't just my lover. He's my religion. He gets something that the rest of us will never get. It's all wrapped in insecurity and dry wit, but there's something there that I know I need. I felt it right away. He's got a grace about him. I want that in my life.”

***

When Sam finally lay down to rest after two hours of studying, he smiled at the man beside him. He had been sorry Dean had only stayed for lunch, but it had been a wonderful visit, and the older man had promised to return to the area for a long weekend soon. And his words to Sam on his way out had filled him with satisfaction.

“Are you awake?”

“Some of me.” 

He snickered. “I'll take what I can get.”

“I appreciate your low expectations.”

“So Dean said something on his way out.” 

“Still wants to fight me?”

Sam laughed. He reached up and touched the soft buzzed hair on the right side of Castiel's head. “No. I mean, probably. But he likes you. He said he was proud of us. Me and him. That he's proud of the two of us. And...I am too.”

“I'm glad, Sam. You deserve that. I'm sure you both do.” 

“Cas? I know I already had my turn today, with meeting Dean and showing off your work. But...I don't want to wait.” 

“For what?”

Sam swallowed hard. But he pushed forward. “Cas? Maybe you'll think this is too fast, but...I'm here all the time anyway. I want to move in here. Completely. And I want to marry you.”

Castiel's eyes opened at last, and he stared at Sam. Then he began to laugh. “Yeah?”

He had an entire argument planned out. He had mental footnotes, and potential counter arguments resolved. But he hadn't expected Castiel to laugh. He blinked at him.

The man smiled, touched Sam's raven gently, and nodded. “Okay. Pick a time and a place, and in the meantime, move in. I'll cancel the shipment of chimpanzees.” He turned onto his stomach, and closed his eyes again. 

Sam's heart leapt into his throat. “Was that-Do you mean yes?” 

“You said you want to move in. You want to marry me. I want to give you whatever you want. So that's a fucking brilliant arrangement. I'll tattoo our rings on.”

“Really?”

Castiel peeked out at him. “Do I get to have an orgie for my bachelor party?”

“Uh, no. But you can have pot, and we’ll just tell you that you did.” 

He nodded, and closed his eyes again. “Good night, Sam.”

“I love you, Cas.” He grinned into the man's shoulder. Until he fell into a happy sleep, he stared at his lines on his arms, felt the burn on his new tattoos, and thought about how grateful he was that he had kept fighting for so many years.


End file.
